O Holy House

I sometimes feel I am a member of a rather strange, small, and not at all exclusive club: upper-middle class women in L.A. who care for their own child, clean their own home, and do their own gardening. Full time. I am not proud of it; it is nothing to be proud of. (As clubs go, it is one from whose rolls most members would beg to be removed). But neither am I ashamed of it. I simply feel I am doing what I’m supposed to do.

That doesn’t mean I am a stellar example of my type.

Oh, I am a pretty decent mom. But as gardeners go, well, there’s a reason they used to call me “the herbicide.” And, as for housecleaning, well, I truly suck at it. I can’t fold a contour sheet to save my life. I have been known to blame my bathroom sinks for being of an “inferior quality” because they “seem so dirty all the time.” I would rather drive needles through my fingers than iron a shirt. Cleaning a bathtub is so daunting to me you would think I had been asked to build one instead. With my teeth. On Neptune.

So when Mike and I decided to have a Christmas splurge and hire someone — just this once — to clean our house, I knew the results would be satisfying.

But, holy crap. It’s like Heaven in here. I think I may be dead. Everything is shining.

It is glorious. I am humbled. I am singing Hosannas.

I am going to get the baby, who just woke up.

Good thing I took pictures. By the time Mike gets home it’ll be over.

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